


all my doors are open

by imagines



Series: AMDAO Verse [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: "kitten", F/F, F/M, First Times, Fluffy Smut, Friends With Benefits, Group Sex, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Pet Names, Polyamory, Praise Kink, daddybek, don't be fooled this is some major fluff, long hair!Yuri, softness and comfort and check-ins all over the place, sub!JJ, top!otabek, what do I even tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 05:58:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10379997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagines/pseuds/imagines
Summary: It all starts because Isabella asks him, point-blank, the question J.J.’s never quite had the nerve to ask himself. It’s tickled at the edge of his mind before, but he’s never let it take hold; it would only—complicate things.“I’ve been wanting to ask you something,” she says, and there’s a glint in her eyes he hasn’t seen often. Curiosity and pleasure and apprehension all at once, like the day she asked him out for the first time, or years later when he dropped to one knee with a ring in his pocket and his words almost failing him.[Set in the Medium-Distant Future, where Yuuri and Victor have retired or something and are thus Not Here. Otabek and Yuri have been dating in the background for awhile.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this one time, I got sad that Isabella never gets to stick around in slash fic about JJ, and I said "but they could be poly! .........huh. they really could be." And then I thought about this for like a month, and then it ate my brain and I wrote it.
> 
> Hi, this is the longest piece of almost-entirely-porn that I have ever written. Have fun.

It all starts because Isabella asks him, point-blank, the question J.J.’s never quite had the nerve to ask himself. It’s tickled at the edge of his mind before, but he’s never let it take hold; it would only—complicate things. He’ll be leaving for Worlds in a few days, but her classes won’t end for another month. So in between her papers and his practices, they’re breathing in each other as often as possible, skin to skin, united in their desire to keep a little of the other with them during the separation.

God, he loves her: when she’s hopping around on one foot pulling on a sock; when she’s smiling over her shoulder on her way out the door; when she’s jumping up and down in the stands; when she’s mumbling around her toothbrush. Any of that. All the time. And now, too, when they’ve just made love and she’s lying naked beside him, having almost caught her breath, her palm curved around his hip. How, _how_ did her eyes ever land on him and stay?

“I’ve been wanting to ask you something,” she says, and there’s a glint in her eyes he hasn’t seen often. Curiosity and pleasure and apprehension all at once, like the day she asked him out for the first time, or years later when he dropped to one knee with a ring in his pocket and his words almost failing him.

He runs his hand from her shoulder down to her elbow and back, his wrist brushing against the side of her breast, and he can feel goosebumps rise on her skin. “Yeah, baby?”

“Have you ever—don’t take this as an accusation, I’m only wondering—do you ever think about…being with men?”

Oh. _Oh_. His breath shakes out of him, the question burrowing up from his subconscious, no longer tucked away neatly in the mental equivalent of the back of a junk drawer. Her eyes pin him, spread him wide open, all his beauty and damage on display for her to examine at her leisure; he’s glittering like butterfly wings under the heat of her stare. She places one finger in the notch at the top of his breastbone, presses in a little. His pulse flutters under her touch, and he swallows hard, choking a little against the pressure. Down his sternum she draws her nail, and down his abdomen, his muscles twitching in series, following the red line she’s etching into his skin.

“You can tell me, my love,” she says softly. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. But you _can_.”

His throat has turned to sandpaper, and his voice rasps and stumbles through his dry lips. “Isabella, you’re the only one I want.”

“Oh, sweetheart. It’s not about that. I’ve never doubted you.” She slides her fingers into his hair; pulls him into a split-second kiss.

“Then why?” This conversation’s a minefield, he thinks; no doubt about that. What he doesn’t understand is why Isabella has dropped him into it.

“I’ve seen you how look at them at competitions, that’s all. So if you’re ever curious—about anything—you can talk to me, and we can work something out. All that matters is that you come home to me, and I know you will.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. Once released, the question didn’t need much consideration before he knew the answer. “I think about it,” he whispers. “Not—often. Just sometimes…I want to know how it’d feel.”

She wraps her arm around his shoulders, drawing him close, tucking his head under her chin. Her heartbeat is steady; she’s all poise while he’s shattering, and thank god her hands are here to catch the fragments of him. “How what would feel, baby?”

He’s hard again, and she _must_ know; her thigh is pressed against him. “I—ah—” He doesn’t know, not exactly; he’s seen things in porn, sure, but this is real life they’re talking about.

“When you’re inside me,” she says, “when you’re moving in me, all my doors are open and you can see all my secrets. Because I want you to. Because I’m letting you. And there’s this look on your face when you come apart, and I know it’s because of me. Not to mention—” she laughs— “it feels _fucking amazing_.”

“Yeah?” He gives up on propriety and rocks against her, and she wraps one leg over his hip and pulls him into her again, an easy slide, and oh, the heat of her. “ _Fuck_ ,” he groans.

“You want to know what it’s like, baby? Opening yourself just like this—letting him feel you, deep inside of you, ah, yeah—” She’s breathless now, one hand moving between her legs, her sentences splintering. “Getting _fucked_ , my love, taking him into you until, mm, until—”

She goes silent, her mouth falling open; her gasp is a shivering sound, the muscles in her stomach all contracting at once. She presses her forehead against his, and he drives into her, because she wants him to, and comes apart in her arms. He’s not quiet at all, and she presses her mouth to his and devours the sound.

“If there’s someone,” she says, after, “at Worlds, or another time—well, just let me know that it’s happening, and be safe. Okay?”

“I promise.” He kisses her then, for a long time, touching every inch of her, memorizing her. “And I will _always_ come back to you.”

Her hands are everywhere on him too, and she’s smiling against his lips. “Come back with stories.”

* * *

Fantasies at home with Isabella, it turns out, are a very different beast than actually trying to do something about what he wants, so J.J. spends most of Worlds holed up in his room. Outside it, the possibilities light up his mind so bright that he can’t arrange his thoughts, and when he speaks to anyone, all his playful thoughts somehow turn annoying or insulting. Not to mention that his voice gets so loud he wants to bang his head against a wall. It’s better in his room, where he can lie on his bed in boxers, watching weird late-night cable and calling Isabella when the time difference allows.

For the most part, she talks him down from panic, tells him how great he looked on TV, whispers things to him that are somehow both dirty and cute, and reminds him how much she loves him. He asks about her classes, about her friends; he tells her that he’s touching himself right now and he misses her so much and he wishes she were here. He calls her all the beautiful words he can think of. _Bella, Isabella, mon amour, mon coeur_ …

Then it’s the night of the exhibition skate, he’s got a shiny silver medal now, and he still hasn’t managed to take Isabella up on her offer. “Are you disappointed?” he asks her, in the ten minutes he has to spare before he has to leave for the rink.

“Of course not, my dear. Of _course_ not. It’s for you, not for me. Are _you_ disappointed?”

“Yeah,” he says, so quietly she has to ask him to repeat himself. “Yeah, I am. I don’t know why I can’t do it. I really want to.”

“Hmm.” She’s silent for a moment, then: “Why didn’t you ask me out back then? I know you liked me.”

“I didn’t want to irritate you,” he answers honestly. “I can be…a lot, sometimes.”

“So maybe you just need to try with someone who can lead a bit, you know? Someone who can match your energy.”

“Someone like you.” His voice comes out hoarse. Jesus, missing her this much is actually painful.

Isabella’s one of those people whose smile is audible, and she’s smiling now when she says, “Exactly. And don’t think too far ahead, okay? Skate, be beautiful, and go to the banquet after. If the right guy is there, you’ll find him. And if not, it’s not like this is your last chance. My offer stands.”

“You could have the same offer,” he tells her. “If you wanted it, if there’s someone you like. I wouldn’t mind.”

“Thank you, baby. I might like that. We can talk about it when you get home, okay? Right now, I want you to get out there and flirt with somebody.”

* * *

It’s not like J.J. doesn’t know _who_ could be a possibility. In this world, all the secrets are open.

He’s late as hell to the banquet, but he greets people left and right anyway: people he knows; people he doesn’t know but pretends to. Everyone’s good at this, and he wouldn’t know a genuinely-excited greeting from a cover for cold disinterest. At least by now, people are already drunk, so the volume level is way up anyway, and he won’t seem so out of line when he talks.

He texts Isabella: _Where the hell do I start??_

 _Is anyone looking at you?_ she responds.

He frowns at his phone. What kind of question is that? But he scans the room anyway, and to his surprise, someone does meet his eyes. Someone who, he realizes, is definitely on the possibility list. _Yeah_ , he tells Isabella. _But I don’t know why._

_Baby, GO TALK TO HIM._

He takes a deep breath. Okay, he can do this—if only so he gets to tell Isabella later that he did it. He sends a quick _okay okay_ , shoves his phone in his back pocket, shoves his hair out of his eyes, and shoves all of his confidence to the surface. Then he marches over to Mr. Possibility. “Hi,” he says, but nothing else, because he only knows how to start when it doesn’t _matter_.

Christophe’s eyebrows rise a little bit, and he glances side to side like maybe J.J. means someone else. “Hello,” he answers, when there isn’t anyone else nearby. “To what do I owe this pleasure? And, I assure you, it _is_ a pleasure.”

J.J. feels a grin sneaking onto his face. _Someone who can match your energy_. He lets his smile broaden; tries biting his lip a little. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

“Is it, now?” Christophe actually looks startled, and J.J. feels a thrill buzzing down his spine. He has _surprised_ someone. That’s good.

“Yeah.” J.J. steps closer, and Christophe’s eyebrows try to crawl into his hairline. But he looks anything but upset by J.J. getting into his space like this. “Want to go talk somewhere else?”

Christophe nods slowly. “Yes, but—I have to ask—don’t you have a…”

J.J. holds his phone up, with Isabella’s last text plainly visible. “She’s the reason I’m trying this at all.”

Christophe nods, reaching out, his fingers landing light on J.J.’s waist. “Thank her for me, will you? I’ll be sure to return you in good condition.” His eyes sweep down J.J.’s body and he breathes in deep. “So, the classic question: your room or mine?”

“Yours.” If J.J. decides to stop everything cold, he’d rather go back to his room in peace than deal with the awkward business of kicking someone out.

He follows Christophe out of the banquet and into an elevator. No one else is wandering the halls right now; it’s much too early in the night for the usual round of pair-offs that always happen. Which is a relief, since J.J. doesn’t really feel like explaining himself.

Christophe walks with confidence, just like J.J. does; only on Christophe it might actually be comfortable and real, instead of a rickety shield that could fall apart at any moment and expose the small and shaking thing inside.

In the room, Christophe takes J.J.’s jacket and hangs it up carefully in the miniature closet by the door. Then he turns to J.J. “Can I ask you some things?”

“Sure. Shoot.” J.J. toes off his shoes; and on second thought, picks them up so he can untie the laces. Quicker to get them back on later.

“Have you done this before?”

J.J. grits his teeth. Why does Christophe have to be so goddamn…responsible, or whatever? He considers saying yes, but that might bring up other questions that he won’t know how to answer. “Done what?” As if it isn’t obvious.

Christophe gestures between them. “Any of this. Picking someone up? Picking up a guy? Hooking up in a one-night-stand kind of thing?”

J.J. stares at his shoes, regretting his choice of neon-orange Nikes with electric-blue laces. Not suave at all. Childish, loud, and completely too much. “No,” he says, maybe a little too flippantly. “Does it matter?” Probably it does matter, and Christophe only sleeps around with experienced people, and—

“Of course it matters.” Christophe puts one hand on J.J.’s shoulder, looking into his eyes. “If this is new for you—if you’re nervous—listen, I just want it to be a good thing for you, and if anything isn’t good, you let me know and we’ll stop.”

“I got it,” J.J. says, dropping his shoes and patching a smirk onto his face. “Try something already, would you?”

Christophe tries something, all right—grips J.J.’s hips tight and nuzzles at his cheek, breathing his air, almost kissing him. But not quite.

J.J. _can’t_ wait, not any longer, and the storm-surge of terror at being _this close_ crashes uselessly into the solid wall of his determination. He catches Christophe’s mouth with his own, snaking his arms around Christophe’s waist. It’s all so strangely gentle. He’d expected something ravenous, relentless; certainly not this slow, tender kiss that doesn’t feel at all like a mandatory stop on the way to sex.

Christophe sighs into his mouth. “Kissing you,” he says, “is absolutely lovely.”

“Same to you,” J.J. mutters, unused to giving or receiving direct compliments on kissing ability. Though he’s overwhelmed any other time with the need to speak, words like these don’t come easy to him; he prefers to speak in touch and motion, communicating with his body everything that’s tangled in his heartstrings.

“Is there more that you want?” Christophe’s rubbing little circles into J.J.’s hipbones with his thumbs, striking sparks low in J.J.’s belly

J.J. groans and drops his forehead onto Christophe’s shoulder. This is like being asked which kind of ice cream you want, when the options are are twenty flavors you’ve never heard of, and oh yeah, you’ve never eaten ice cream in your life.

Christophe turns his head to trail tiny kisses along J.J.’s neck. “Would you like me to offer some suggestions?”

“Yeah,” J.J. says. “Yeah, do that.”

“Come lie down with me.” Christophe backs away from him, toward the bed.

Mesmerized, J.J. follows, and lets Christophe urge him down onto his back on the bed. It rips out of him then: “Please—”

“I’ve got you,” Christophe says, crawling onto the bed next to him. “It’s okay.” Christophe, apparently, has taken one look at his cockiness and sauntered right through the smokescreen.

When Christophe kneels beside him, sitting back with his legs folded under him, J.J. can’t help but notice the strain across the front of his dress pants. _Oh._ Yet he doesn’t seem to be making a move to do anything about it.

Christophe doesn’t miss the angle of J.J.’s gaze. “Yes, it’s from looking at you,” he says, as he runs his fingertips down J.J.’s chest from collar to hem of his shirt. “You are _very_ beautiful.” He toys with the top button of the shirt. “May I?”

J.J. nods, and Christophe starts working at the buttons, peeling back the fabric, baring J.J.’s skin as easily as he had uncovered J.J.’s desire. J.J. sits up a little so Chris can slide his shirt off his shoulders, and a tremor runs through his whole body.

“Cold?” Christophe asks.

“No, just—” What with all the locker rooms he’s been in, J.J.’s seen plenty of dicks, just never in this context, never when he might be expected to—do something, with someone else’s. He waves his hand vaguely in the general direction of Christophe’s pants.

“Relax.” Christophe breathes out the word against J.J.’s lips. “It’s not going anywhere unless you are begging for it.” He drops kisses in a line down J.J.’s chest, lighting tiny fires everywhere his mouth touches, until he stops at J.J.’s belt. He runs his hand down J.J.’s thigh. “Do you want these off?”

“Nnh,” is all J.J. manages to say, and his hips rock up a little.

“I need a yes or no, love,” Christophe says softly. “Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, _fuck_ —”

Christophe gets his pants off him, and J.J. hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his underwear and pushes those off, too. Christophe inhales sharply, and J.J. feels smug—he’s surprised him again.

Then Chris just _looks_ at him for awhile, every part of him—at the bruises on his feet, the hollow of his throat, the ladder-lines of his ribs; and yes, also at his cock, and J.J. has to close his eyes, because otherwise, he might actually spontaneously combust. “Thank you,” Christophe says.

“For what?” J.J. squirms a little, too conscious of how completely exposed he is, while Christophe hasn’t yet removed anything besides his shoes and jacket. When he kisses J.J. now, his tie drags over J.J.’s chest, cool and silky and as green as his eyes.

“Letting me see you like this. I’m honored.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” J.J. mutters.

“Not a bit. I was not expecting you tonight, but sometimes the best things in life are surprises, right?”

“Can you just—” J.J.’s heart is racing by now; he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and Christophe isn’t _doing_ anything.

“What do you need, baby?”

Isn’t it obvious? J.J. rubs his palms over his eyes. It’s not easy to break down the façade he’s spent so much time building, but Christophe is exceptionally skilled at dismantling his pretenses. He takes a deep breath. Looks Christophe straight in the eye. “Touch me,” he says, somewhere between a plea and a command; and the flush that spreads over Christophe’s cheeks is worth the effort. “ _Here_.” He grabs Christophe’s hand and moves it to his cock, and Christophe fucking _moans_ , not breaking eye contact.

Open-mouthed, Christophe strokes J.J. slowly, then bends his head to kiss the insides of J.J.’s thighs. “Can I suck you off, honey? I’d really like to.”

The mingling of sweet and dirty words sends sparks crackling down J.J.’s spine. “God, yeah,” J.J. gasps, and Christophe doesn’t hesitate for a moment, taking J.J.’s cock into his mouth, pulling off just long enough for delicate little kisses at the tip of him before surrounding him in silken heat once more. The northern lights have nothing on the sheets of fire flaring and swirling through him; then he’s knocked into fucking outer space, tethered only by Christophe’s fingers laced into his.

Christophe draws back, running the heel of his hand over his lips. “Gorgeous,” he murmurs. “How do you feel, love?”

J.J.’s legs are tingling and there’s no energy in him for getting up, let alone moving at all. “Good,” he says, which isn’t nearly descriptive enough, so sue him, it’s not like his brain is totally functional at the moment.

Christophe smiles, all sunlight and roses. “That’s good. I’m glad. Do you want help getting back to your room?”

“Don’t…want my room.” J.J.’s voice has gone all blurry, and his eyes don’t want to stay open, and he feels Christophe pulling a quilt up over him. He’s still naked; of course he didn’t bring anything with him, since he hadn’t planned on sleeping, but…

Christophe tucks himself in next to J.J., not too close, but not too far either. “Rest as long as you want, okay?” he tells J.J., but it’s like he’s calling down a long hallway, and J.J. lets sleep pull him under.

* * *

J.J. calls Isabella the next day, a little early for her, but she doesn’t mind. “Hi, baby!” she chirps. “So, how’d it go?” She sounds a bit far away; she’s put him on speakerphone. In the background he hears their coffeemaker hissing and burbling, and the _ding_ of the microwave, and something sizzling on the stove. He closes his eyes, and their kitchen swims into focus in his mind: sunlight filtering through gauzy white curtains, warming the little breakfast table by the window; dust motes flickering in and out of the beams; Isabella scrunching her bare toes into the blue and white rag rug in front of the stove.

He tells her everything, and he can hear her actually _clapping_ by the time he finishes.

“I am so proud of you,” she says, and her voice comforts him, pulls him back to earth the last little bit of the way, and he’s grounded again.

His flight’s in a few hours, but he wants to see her _now_. “What are you wearing?” he asks.

“Hang up and I’ll show you.”

He obeys, telling her he loves her before tapping END CALL, and a minute later there’s the _ping_ of an incoming photo. She’s sitting crosslegged on that kitchen rug, elbow on her knee and chin in her palm, grinning up at the camera. She’s wearing one of his favorite t-shirts for a nightshirt, this bright red one with a copy of his _JL_ tattoo across the chest, and there’s a hint of white panties peeking out from below the hem. He texts her: _mind wearing that for me when I get home?_

 _Sure_ , she answers. _Mind taking it off me?_

Holy shit, he does not deserve her.

* * *

After that, they navigate: trying out boundaries, testing the options. Even positive change brings strain and extra work, but there’s this glorious light that shines in her eyes when he tells her stories—this joy that courses through her, floods him too whenever he kisses her, and he never wants to stop building this thing they have together.

Sometimes he tries with other people, but whenever he’s in the same country as Chris—who’s made it to nickname status—they always end up in one of their rooms, although they don’t really contact each other outside of that. Isabella even meets him a few times, and she fucking _adores_ him, and J.J. eventually accepts that his life is now in a permanent state of happy confusion. He asks Isabella every once in awhile if there’s anyone else she’d maybe like to spend time with, but she always just shrugs and says she’ll let him know if there ever is.

Competition after competition passes by like that. J.J. marries Isabella in an off-season, and not a whole lot changes except the words he uses to describe their relationship. She graduates, and joins him at competitions a lot more often.

At Skate America one year, they’ve barely arrived at the hotel when Chris texts him, and Isabella laughs when J.J. shows her: just a room number and a smiley face. “He gets right to the point, doesn’t he?” She takes J.J.’s backpack from him and shoves him gently. “Go on, go see your friend. After that flight, all I want right now is a long hot bath and a nap, so you’re off the hook for a few hours anyway.”

The text isn’t anything out of the ordinary. The difference this time is, Chris isn’t already half-naked when J.J. knocks on the door, although he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I’ve received an intriguing offer,” Chris says. “I don’t know if it’s your kind of deal, but—figured I’d throw it out there in case you’re interested.”

J.J. shuts the door behind him. “Go on.”

“You know it’s probably my last year competing, right?” Chris’s mouth twists in a sad little smile, and yeah, it’s not like J.J. hadn’t been watching the birthdays ticking by on Instagram. Chris is turning 29 in just a few months, and although he’s as beloved as always, there’s an undercurrent of doubt running through the media—through everyone’s minds—that he’ll get to the Final this time. Let alone Worlds.

It always happens this way. Every year, someone’s hip or knee or ankle gives out for good, and maybe they get steroid injections and skate anyway, because if the car’s gonna crash at the end of this season, better make it the biggest and brightest explosion possible. Every year, someone does their last quad or their last triple axel, no more showstoppers ever again, stick to singles and doubles from here on out if you don’t want to break something important. J.J. wonders sometimes if they know it’s the last one when they do it—if there’s a jolt in their bones in that moment that tells them it’s all over now. Chris has just two quads in his free skate this year, and it won’t be enough, not when three is standard by now. No one says it, but everyone knows it: he’s not planning on medaling. He just wants to be here one more time, hear the crowd screaming when he enters the rink, and raise his arms in the deluge of roses after.

But J.J. says none of this to Chris, who must already have been through this entire train of thought. He doesn’t like to think about it for long, though. Doesn’t _have_ to think about it yet anyhow; he’s got plenty of good years left if his body sticks to the plan. “Yeah, I know,” he says quietly.

Chris stands up and puts his hands on J.J.’s shoulders, gripping lightly. “I’m not going to focus on that, though. I’m just going to give everything, all of myself, one more time. Which is also what this is about.” He jerks his head at his phone, which is lying on the nightstand. “I guess it’s a going-away present? Anyway, Otabek and Yuri want to know if—” He breaks off, laughing. “If we’d like to come up and spend some _quality time_ after the free skate. And by spend quality time, I mean have sex.”

“Chris. Yuri _hates my guts_.” J.J. is certain he’s mentioned this before; how could it have slipped Chris’s mind? There must be some mistake, because while Otabek largely prefers to quietly ignore him these days, Yuri has attempted outright sabotage.

Okay, so he just tied J.J.’s laces in knots that one time. And J.J. always carries spare laces so it wasn’t even that big of a deal, but still. _Sabotage_. So the tendrils of heat curling and spreading throughout his stomach may as well give up.

Chris’s grin looks positively evil. “I believe Yuri’s exact words were, ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing one of you shut him up.’ Although he did not specify how this was to be accomplished.”

“And Otabek? I think we’ve spoken a dozen words to each other in the past couple of years.”

“Otabek, ahh… Otabek offered to shut you up. If you’d like.”

 _Oh._ J.J. swallows. “Isn’t this supposed to be _your_ gift?”

“You don’t think I’d enjoy seeing you like that?” Chris drags the backs of his fingers down J.J.’s jaw. “You don’t have to answer right now, babe. It won’t be until after the free skate anyway. But if you decide you want to go, I’ll be right there with you the whole time.”

“I’ll think about it,” J.J. says.

* * *

He runs it by Isabella, of course. Her eyes get wider as he outlines the details of the invitation. “Do you want to do it?” she asks, when he’s done.

“I think so. Yeah.” He wasn’t certain until just now, and he’s still so nervous about the idea that his stomach is trying to crawl into his throat. But if he’s ever going to do something completely ridiculous like this, why not do it with a friend beside him?

“Then you should,” she says. “And I have something to ask you, too…” She looks down, a small grin creeping onto her lips. “Remember when you said, if there was ever anyone I liked?”

“Isa _bella_!” he exclaims. “Spill!”

“Well, Mila’s been messaging me since last season, and—well, look.” She scrolls through a message log. “This happened a couple of nights ago. She said I could show you.”

 

> **mila-babe:** tbh you might be the actual prettiest girl I know  <3
> 
> **jjsbella:** shut up, that’s you  <333

“I thought she fell asleep,” Isabella continues, “because she didn’t answer again for hours. Then…”

 

> **mila-babe:** can i tell you something?
> 
> **jjsbella:** you can tell me anything!
> 
> **mila-babe:** i might kind of have a little bit of a crush on you
> 
> **mila-babe:** a lot
> 
> **jjsbella:** i’m dead, bb, you’re too cute
> 
> **jjsbella:** and… i mean, same
> 
> **jjsbella:** also a lot
> 
> **mila-babe:** wait really?
> 
> **jjsbella:** 11/10 would kiss your face
> 
> **mila-babe:** um, omg, you have to tell me if you’re fucking with me rn
> 
> **jjsbella:** i’m not fucking with you bb
> 
> **jjsbella:** so do you want to hang out at skate america?
> 
> **mila-babe:** yES? this is not how i expected this to go, wow
> 
> **jjsbella:** surprising you is fun. i’m gonna do that more often
> 
> **mila-babe:** please…
> 
> **jjsbella:** and maybe make you say that more often too?
> 
> **mila-babe:** umm. also please to that.

“So I was thinking, it’d be fun to go to the banquet with each other, but we don’t have to _leave_ with each other.” She smirks, scrunching her nose. “If you catch my drift.”

He wraps his arms tight around her. “Baby, you always have the best ideas.”

* * *

By this point, Yuri’s breaking records everywhere he skates, but J.J. snags silver and calls it good. He’s learned by now that Canada’s entire reputation does not rest on his back alone, and while he still wants to kick everyone’s ass on the rink, it no longer breaks him when he can’t. Some reporter asks how he feels about the result, and he tells her the truth. “I skated my best, and I’m proud of myself.” She’s smiling and nodding but not moving, and he grins, shaking his head at her. “Come on, you already know—it’s J.J. style!” Cameras flash as he holds up his hands, a signature move that’s taken on a life of its own. He still loves the catchphrase thing, doesn’t regret it a bit; but turning himself into a brand has made it a little hard to change when he wants to. Formerly-cocky assholes aren’t as interesting. They’re just assholes.

On the podium he’s between Yuri, of course, and Otabek, who took bronze. During the customary ceremonial hugs, Yuri whispers in his ear: “Coming by later?” His voice is low and rough and J.J. almost shivers.

“As if I’d miss it.” The conviction in his voice startles him, and makes Yuri gasp. Out of the corner of his eye, Otabek’s—not smiling, exactly, but certainly looking very _pleased_. J.J. wonders what exactly he is getting himself into.

* * *

The banquet plan goes perfectly. J.J. and Isabella arrive together, mingle, and dance til they’re breathless. At some point the gears shift, and then Isabella’s giggling into Mila’s hair, her hand low— _really_ low—on Mila’s back. Chris slides into the gap, easy as you please, and J.J. doesn’t even _care_ that everyone can see the way Chris is moving against him. Not like these banquets are any stranger to people throwing themselves at each other, anyway.

Isabella comes to find him a bit later where he’s taking a break at a table, toying with the edge of the tablecloth. “Baby, you going to be all right if I head out now?”

He pulls her to him; kisses her hard for just a moment. “I’ll be just fine. Have fun, love.”

She whisks out of the hall with Mila, and his heart staggers in its rhythm. It’s all getting to be very real now.

Chris ambles over and slides into a chair, resting his forearms on the table.

“Hi,” J.J. says.

Chris leans forward, closing the space, limiting how far his voice will carry. “How are you doing?”

J.J. shrugs. “Fine. Why?”

“You’ve pulled some threads loose from that poor tablecloth and are now hard at work fraying the hem, so I was thinking you might be a bit nervous.”

J.J. looks down; there is indeed a small pile of snapped-off bits of white thread in his lap. “Um—”

“It’s okay if you are. And it’s okay if you want to drop out of this, you know.”

“I don’t want to drop out of it.” The thing is, it feels like getting on an actually-enormous rollercoaster for the first time in your life, where half of you can’t wait for that flood of adrenaline, and the other half is convinced you’re about to die. So you fight that other half, because there’s nothing like the rush. Nothing like getting up close and personal with your own fear when you know for a fact that you’re completely safe. J.J.’s racked up a number of _get me off this ride_ experiences entirely on purpose, and just about every time, he couldn’t wait to do it again as soon as it was over. But this is probably more of an explanation than Chris needs, so he condenses it: “It’s not the kind of nervous where I want to stop.”

Chris nods. “I get it,” he says. “So, if you’re all right, I was thinking we might take off soon?”

J.J. looks around; Yuri and Otabek are hanging out by the door, chatting with anyone nearby, but still watching Chris and J.J. “Yeah, I’m ready. Let’s go.”

* * *

The elevator ride up to Otabek and Yuri’s room is very quiet. J.J. isn’t sure how this is supposed to work, if half the people in this group aren’t terribly interested in talking to him. He worries at his lower lip.

Chris steps a little closer to him and bumps his hip against J.J.’s. “Hey,” he says softly. “Remember? I’ve got you. Always.”

J.J. lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I know.”

Yuri turns to him suddenly. “You never used to be this quiet. What the fuck happened?”

“Wow, you deign to speak to me after all? I’m honored.”

“Oh, shut the hell up,” Yuri growls.

“Why don’t you make me? I heard you like that kind of thing.”

“Fucking— _rrgh!_ ” Yuri turns his back again, folding his arms. “You’re so goddamn _insufferable_ , Leroy.”

“Can’t help it. You bring it out in me.” J.J. sticks his tongue out, even though Yuri can’t see him.

They stop sniping at each other long enough to walk down the hall to the room, but the moment the door swings shut, Yuri rounds on him. “Let’s get one thing straight right now. _You_ don’t touch me, not without permission.”

“Agreed.”

“I wanted you here because Chris inexplicably has a huge thing for you, not for any personal reason.”

“Aww, you wanted me here?”

Yuri turns to Otabek. “ _Will you fucking do something about him_.”

“Hmm,” Otabek says, looking J.J. up and down. “How about it? Want me to do something about you?”

J.J.’s mouth goes so fucking dry he can’t speak, just closes his eyes and tries not to gasp too loudly.

Chris comes up behind him; holds him gently by the hips and rests his chin on J.J.’s shoulder. “Look at me, sweetheart. Can you tell me?”

J.J. leans his head against Chris’s, opening his eyes. _This_ is familiar; here he can say the truth. “I want it,” he breathes.

“Can I talk to J.J. for a minute?” Otabek asks.

Chris squeezes J.J.’s hips. “That okay with you?” J.J. nods, and Chris and Yuri cross the room—which is a fucking big room, with a fucking big bed—to give them space.

Otabek moves so close, J.J. can feel the heat radiating off his body. Somehow, despite Otabek being a good head shorter, his personality towers over everyone in the room. “Chris said you’ve never done anything like this before. So I wanted to lay out the basics.”

“Okay,” J.J. says. He has to consciously breathe deeply or he’ll hyperventilate.

“You have control,” Otabek says. “Always. Over everything that involves you. You can ask for things, you can say no, you can say stop. There’s no shame in any of it. The thing you and Chris have, where he keeps you centered and helps you find words, that’s really good. You should keep doing that. But what I really want you to know is—you and Yuri have your differences, and you and I haven't seen much of each other since Canada, but Chris likes you a lot. You are welcome here. We _want_ you here. Please don’t doubt that.”

Compared to the years of occasional greetings in passing, this is a fucking tidal wave of a speech from Otabek. “Thank you,” he tells Otabek, which doesn’t quite seem like the right thing to say, but it’s better than nothing, right?

“Is it all right if I kiss you now?”

J.J. nods. Otabek puts his hand on the side of J.J.’s face, and when he kisses J.J., another kind of monster wave crashes over him and he’s drowning in it, this gentle kiss with a graze of teeth like a promise. He’s so turned on, his skin is buzzing. He fumbles at the collar his shirt, but his graceless fingers trip over the buttons. Otabek reaches up to help, and together they pull his shirt off. J.J. breaks away long enough to drape the shirt over the back of a chair; he’s not going to drop Armani on the floor, for godsakes; then Otabek catches him by the belt and hauls him close again.

Once J.J. has relaxed, Otabek lets go. “Better?”

“Yeah.” J.J. clears his throat and looks around. Yuri’s curled up on a sofa that somehow manages to be both overstuffed and elegant; it’s facing the foot of the bed. He has changed into a white satin robe and piled his hair into a messy bun, leaving a few strands free at his temples, and the effect would be angelic, if you imagined an angel who wants to kick your ass ninety-eight percent of the time.

Chris is standing behind the sofa, rubbing Yuri’s shoulders, and Otabek ambles over to kiss Chris’s neck. “Darling,” Chris sighs, “if you keep doing that—”

Otabek nips at him. “I’m going to. Among other things. I think you should get on the bed now.”

Chris’s eyelashes flutter, and he’s already breathing hard when he walks to the bed and climbs up on it.

“On your back,” Otabek orders. “I want to see your face.”

J.J. isn’t quite sure where he’s supposed to go. He envies Chris; it might be weird to get told what to do, but at least then he’d _know_. And is he supposed to look at them? Not look? Something else?

“Leroy, quit fidgeting and sit down!” Yuri barks from the sofa. He pats the cushions next to him.

J.J. frowns. “What, next to _you_?”

“Do you see another front-row seat anywhere?”

Okay, so he’s supposed to watch. J.J. tucks himself into the corner of the sofa, leaving ample room between himself and Yuri.

“Jesus, I don’t bite,” Yuri says.

“You said not to touch you?” J.J. reminds him.

“Since when do you actually listen to me?”

J.J. winces. “I guess I deserved that.”

“Can you shut up and just pay attention to _them_?” Yuri points at the bed, where Otabek has Chris pinned, rolling his hips against Chris’s. “Now isn’t the time to revisit our distaste for each other.”

“Speak for yourself. I always kinda liked you.”

“Whatever.” Yuri folds his arms and turns away.

There’s an easy intimacy between Chris and Otabek; they’re friends who know each other’s bodies as well as they know each other’s hearts. It’s hard to keep his eyes on them—they’re entranced by each other, as if they’ve forgotten anyone else is present. J.J. feels like he’s maybe seeing something private he shouldn’t.

“They like it when you watch, so stop looking so worried,” Yuri commands. “Oh my god, okay, come here.” He leans sideways, bracing himself with one hand between them. “Keep your hands to yourself, got it?” And then he’s wrapping one hand around the back of J.J.’s neck and crushing his mouth to J.J.’s.

On the bed, someone moans, and Yuri bites J.J.’s lower lip, not releasing his hold until J.J. gasps.

“Look now,” Yuri tells him.

They’re just in time to catch the moment Otabek pushes into Chris, and Chris’s head is falling back, his torso arcing off the bed. The fucking look on Chris’s face—J.J.’s mouth falls open, and for some reason Yuri’s hand is on him now, stroking the inside of his thigh, and he squirms; his pants were already uncomfortably tight and this isn’t helping matters.

“You should—” Yuri swallows. “You should take these off.”

“Should I?” Even in this state, J.J. can’t resist being contrary with Yuri.

Yuri slaps J.J.’s leg, making him hiss. “Asshole.”

Only a little contrary, though. J.J. undoes his belt and shoves his pants and underwear down his legs and onto the floor. Although Yuri keeps his head facing forward, J.J. does not miss how his eyes flick over. J.J. lets his legs fall open more. “Like what you see?”

Yuri doesn’t answer. J.J. can see Yuri gritting his teeth, and god, he longs to grab a handful of that luxury of hair and get a hand under that bathrobe, find out what kind of sounds Yuri makes—but there are rules here, and instead J.J. digs his fingers into the sofa to keep them still.

Which is when Chris meets his eyes. J.J.’s eyes. While Otabek’s fucking him. Holy _fuck_. “How about it, babe?” Chris says. “You wanna try? It feels _really_ good. Just ask—Beka— _oh_ ,” and he breaks off as Otabek rocks deep.

J.J. doesn’t feel himself rise, but suddenly he’s standing halfway between the sofa and the bed, and Otabek’s pulling away, and oh, yeah, there’s Chris. Whom J.J.’s seen naked plenty of times, just never quite like this, not lying on a bed, his legs spread, begging J.J. to fuck him. Shit, he can’t do this, what is he even doing here? He has no idea how to—

“Do you want to?” Yuri’s voice is soft in his ear; he’s glided up behind J.J. to stand with his hands on J.J.’s shoulders, whispering to him. “If you don’t, you can just come back to the sofa with me.”

“I want to,” J.J. says. “Fuck, I—really want to.”

“You can do it,” Yuri murmurs. “He doesn’t care if you’re perfect at it. He just wants to feel you.”

Grasping at the last shreds of his courage, J.J. crawls onto the bed to kneel between Chris’s thighs.

“Hi,” Chris says, opening his arms.

J.J. leans down, letting Chris embrace him, kiss him softly. “Just—let me know if I hurt you or—anything. Okay?”

“Of course,” Chris says, “but it’s going to be just fine.”

J.J. draws back, and all of a sudden he’s at a loss again, unsure where he should touch, how to begin.

“Like this,” Otabek says, and he reaches down and shoves two fingers inside Chris.

“Yeah— _ah_ —just like that but with your _cock_ ,” Chris explains, helpfully.

Deep breath. Another deep breath for good measure. Otabek moves away again, and J.J. lines up, pushes—and it’s so much easier than he expected—

Chris is making these breathy sounds, little _mm_ ’s in the back of his throat, taking him all the way. “Feels good, baby, huh?” He crosses his ankles around J.J.’s back, pulls him deep. “You can go harder, sweetheart, I won’t break.”

Looking into Chris’s eyes just then is something like gazing into an active volcano, J.J. thinks; all glowing heat and swirling fire, and the flash of a thought: _Throw yourself in. See what happens_. Thunder cracks inside his chest; a growl erupts out of him; then everything narrows to Chris’s voice:

“Just like that—oh, you’re _good_ at this—there we go, you’re such a good boy—holy shit, baby, I’m gonna come on your cock—” and then Chris’s whole body goes tense and J.J. _sees_ it when it happens, and he _made_ it happen, and oh fuck he’s close too—

“Wait,” Chris says, putting a hand on his chest, “hold still, you didn’t come yet, right?”

J.J. freezes. “Are you okay? Did I—”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s just—Beka’s good with his hands,” Chris whispers. “So in case you want to know what it’s like to feel someone inside you, he’s a great place to start. God, J.J., it’s like—mmm, I can’t even describe it; he’s so gentle and _thorough_ and he knows exactly how to make you come. Do you want to? While I’m right here with you?”

“Fuck,” J.J. mutters, because the idea is terrifying and yet—and yet. That blissed-out look on Chris’s face right now, he’s not exactly opposed to maybe looking like that himself. “Maybe,” he says. “We can—try.”

“Yeah?” Chris reaches up to cradle J.J.’s jaw in one hand. “Then we can try.”

When Otabek touches him, his thighs tense and he almost jerks away. He’s never felt so exposed in his life. Otabek’s spreading his cheeks apart with one hand, and with the other—oh _god_ —he’s rubbing his fingers in small circles around J.J.’s hole, not…pressing, or anything, just—petting him gently, as easily as he’d touch any other part of J.J.’s body, nothing to it, and J.J. drops his forehead onto Chris’s chest. He can feel his toes curling. He _knows_ Yuri can see everything; the sofa is right there at the foot of the bed, and Otabek is kneeling beside him, not blocking the view one bit. J.J. can hear the slick sounds, and his own heartbeat, and his breath coming in choked-off gasps.

Chris is running his palms up and down J.J.’s arms, up and down, watching J.J. closely, somehow keeping his poise even with J.J. still inside him. “Everything okay, sweetheart? Tell me right away if it’s too much, all right?”

“It’s okay,” J.J. pants. “I’m okay. It— _ahh_ —it’s good—”

Otabek touches his shoulder. “I’m going to go inside you now, okay? Just a little bit. If you need to stop, let me know.”

J.J. nods, hard. And then it’s happening, _oh_ , but he’s locked-up, he can’t, it’s never going to—

“Breathe out for me, baby, can you do that?” Chris whispers, and J.J. focuses on that voice, that anchor, and breathes out in a long stammering exhalation, and then something _gives_. He shudders, and Otabek’s finger slips deeper. There’s a tiny gasp from the sofa.

The sounds wrenching out of him now are not ones he’s ever heard himself make before. And Otabek’s not even moving yet, just keeps his hand still while J.J. shivers and groans and clenches around him.

Chris is staring at J.J. like he’s seeing fucking angels. “You needed this, didn’t you? Needed someone to open you up, touch you deep inside… oh, my sweet boy, I wish you could see yourself. You’ve got this. You can do this. Take it for me, honey.”

“J.J., is it okay for me to move?” Otabek asks, and J.J. can’t get his voice to work, but he takes a deep breath and rocks back a little. And Otabek understands—slides out a little, then plunges deep, and Chris cries out as J.J.’s pushed deeper into him. J.J. can feel him, hard against J.J.’s stomach again, and he’s vaguely aware that he’s got his face pressed into Chris’s chest, his mouth open, dragging dampness over Chris’s skin. Chris buries his hands in J.J.’s hair and keeps up the torrent of words: _you’re good, so good, yes, make noise, let me hear how much you love it, fuck me just like that, you’re gonna make me come again, ah, say my name, baby, please_ — And somewhere in there, Otabek presses a second finger into him and curls them down, and some things feel like fireworks but this is a fucking meteor shower.

“ _Christophe_.” J.J. sobs the word against Chris’s skin, and then Chris is coming, hot and wet and all over J.J., and Otabek slows down. “No, please, I need to—”

“I know,” Otabek soothes him. “Don’t worry, you can come soon, I promise, only—Yuri, come here, please.”

J.J. feels the bed dip as Yuri crawls up beside them.

“Yuri, look,” Otabek whispers, increasing his pace again. “Look how _deep_ —” And he thrusts in hard.

J.J.’s arms won’t hold him up anymore. He collapses onto Chris, and Chris holds him tightly as he writhes; a roar in his ears and the wet relentless slap of Otabek’s hand against him; and then it’s surging through him and he bites down hard on Chris’s shoulder but he can’t stop the muffled scream that bursts out of him.

“You’re a fucking wreck,” Yuri says, but somehow it sounds more affectionate than anything else Yuri’s ever said to him.

“Yeah,” J.J. says, voice hitching. “Can’t really argue.”

“So,” Otabek says, trailing his fingertips down Yuri’s cheek. “I think it’s kitten’s turn to play now. You didn’t touch yourself, right?”

J.J.’s breath catches. The _don’t touch_ thing wasn’t just about him. _Oh_.

Yuri closes his eyes and rubs his face against Otabek’s hand; J.J.’s a little surprised he doesn’t outright purr. “No, I didn’t,” he says quietly. “I waited for you.”

“Thank you, baby.” Otabek kisses him, a delicate soft brush of lips, and Yuri melts against him. Otabek catches him, laughing. “Okay, lie down.” He guides Yuri onto his back and reverently unties the robe, unfolding it like petals, and Yuri flushes all over beneath his gaze.

Otabek begins at Yuri’s kneecaps, kissing his way upward. At the junction of Yuri’s hip and thigh, Otabek nuzzles the V of his muscles, dragging stubble over delicate places, until Yuri can’t help but buck a little. Otabek smiles against his skin. “That’s good. Move as much as you want to. Just don’t come. Got it?”

Yuri nods, groaning through clenched teeth, and that’s when Otabek takes him in his mouth; holds him gently on his tongue and never looks away from Yuri’s eyes. Yuri moans, and when his hips jerk upward, Otabek lets him move, as promised. Yuri grabs for Otabek’s hand and hangs on, fucks Otabek’s mouth, almost sobbing from relief at finally being touched, and at the height of frenzy—when J.J. is sure there’s no way Yuri can hold back—he pushes Otabek off him, squirming backward. “I, I—stop or I’ll come—”

“Good job,” Otabek says in a rough and ravaged voice. “Do you think you can stand it if I fuck you?”

“Oh _god_ —” Yuri closes his eyes, hands curling and uncurling in the sheets. “Yes, I can do it, please—”

“Okay then.” Otabek pats his hip. “Show us how much you need it, kitten.”

Yuri scrambles to his hands and knees, crashing forward to press his forehead into the bed, his back arched and his ass in the air. He reaches between his legs, tiny gasping breaths as he rubs his hole, and J.J. cannot look away from that desperate fluttering ring. Yuri’s thighs are shaking and Otabek finally pushes his hand away and gets his mouth on him there instead, teasing light circles first and then licking into him until Yuri’s pushing back on his tongue and whimpering _moremorepleasemore_ into the sheets.

“Say it,” Otabek whispers against him. “Say what you need. So I can take care of you.”

“I need you to fuck me.” The muscles in Yuri’s shoulders tense and release as he struggles for control of himself.

“I can see that. There’s a wet spot under you already, did you know that?”

“Please please fuck me,” Yuri chokes out. “I need to come, I _have to_ —”

Otabek presses himself against Yuri’s hole, barely entering him. “Fuck you… what?”

His voice so quiet J.J. almost can’t hear it, Yuri whispers against the sheets, “Fuck me, daddy, please”—and Otabek grabs his hips and thrusts into him deep.

“Let them see your pretty face, kitten.” Otabek grabs hold of Yuri’s hair and pulls his head back. “Let them see how much you love my cock.”

“Love your cock, love this, love you,” Yuri pants, and that’s when Otabek’s iron composure begins to crumble. He leans over Yuri, kissing his spine, his shoulders, anywhere he can reach, breathless and speechless, his hand shaking in Yuri’s hair as he drives into him.

“I want to see you come, come for me _now_ , Yura—” and Otabek’s wrapping his hand around Yuri now, stroking fast, and Yuri shouts and comes under his touch; it’s only moments until Otabek follows.

“Holy shit,” Chris says quietly.

Yuri laughs from his state of bonelessness on the bed. “Saying what we’re all thinking.”

Otabek curls up on his side next to Yuri, who throws an arm over Otabek’s shoulder. “Is everyone okay?” Otabek asks. “Do you need anything?” This last seems mostly directed at J.J.

“I’m all right,” J.J. says, and he is. He so is. “This was all…” He’s not sure what words describe things properly.

“Indescribably awesome?” Chris suggests, nuzzling at J.J.’s shoulder. “Thanks, all of you. I’ll never forget this.”

“See that you don’t,” Yuri says, yawning. “Or we’ll all have to come to Switzerland to remind you.”

Chris puts a hand to his forehead. “Oh no,” he says. “Oh dear, I’ve forgotten already, everything is so hazy—”

Yuri kicks Chris in the ribs. “Why are you like this?”

J.J. swings his legs off the side of the bed. “I hate to leave you to your bickering like this, but I think Isabella’s back by now.”

“You’re fine,” Otabek assures him. “And—if you want—you can look us up later. We could stay in touch. Yuri’s taken a bit of shine to you, not that he’ll admit it—” Otabek dodges another kick from Yuri.

“I’ll do that.” J.J. dresses quickly, stealing a few more glances at the pile of sleepy men on the bed before he leaves.

The hallway is quiet, this time because it’s so late that everyone’s gone to bed by now. He pads to the elevator, carpet swallowing the sound of his footsteps. Isabella’s sent him a text, and she’s waiting for him in their room, and they have stories to trade. It’s true things have gotten complicated, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> • [seaworn’s](archiveofourown.org/users/seaworn/pseuds/seaworn) fault again tbh; not everything we thought of made it into this, but I’ve kept the list for…later reference… ;) (GO READ HER WORK, SHE'S GREAT, it's literally her fault I started writing otayuri at all!)
> 
> • I've been staring at this for a solid week (maybe longer? it's all a blur) and I can't stand to edit it any more, but I'm ridiculously excited to show you, so you're welcome to point out any plot holes/typos I didn't catch. ;)
> 
> • fngjdfghj i'm actually super nervous about this so i'm gonna hit POST now before i lose my nerve ahahah bye
> 
> • [and come say hi @ tumblr!](http://meimagino.tumblr.com)
> 
> • note, 7/3/17: Well, now we know JJ and Otabek really were friends years ago! So I've made some minor edits to reference that, because their former friendship will absolutely become a part of AMDAO verse. ;)


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